The 80 000 people of the Upper Tugela Location are adamant they will not move. The government is caught in
an impasse. Its own policy of bantustans and influx
control has created a situation which it can no longer
control. The strategic Tugela Catchment area is gradually
being eroded away as the people of Upper Tugela resist
further impoverishment through removal.
The emergence of new black political organization has
meant that existing organizations like Inkatha, so as not to
lose popular support, will be compelled to take up the
issue of removals with ever more vigour. This is bound
to make consolidation even more difficult for Pretoria.
The government is thus caught in a difficult situation.
Determined to press ahead with consolidation and already
having spent vast amounts of money on it, it has to attempt
to juggle the numerous pieces of KwaZulu into some sort
of geographical unity and at the same time take into account
the many pressure groups at work. Inkatha, for instance,
must now take a more and more active interest in removals
or be discredited. Half a million more people are to be
moved in Natal and Pretoria is forced to realise that the
discontent engendered by this massive relocation can be
used by political organizations for their long term ends. •
by COLIN GARDNER
TWO POETS IN NATAL
In the last fifteen years or so there has been an explosion
of lively and varied South African literature in English.
Why should this have been so? The answer to such a question is never easy: the causes of any socio-cultural development are complex. Indeed the development itself may
have to be viewed with circumspection: a number of the
important writers of this period had been at work for
some years — Alan Paton, Es'kia Mphahlele, Nadine
Gordimer, Richard Rive, Guy Butler, James Matthews,
Douglas Livingstone. It seems safe to assert, however,
that a crucial fact in our cultural as well as our political
history was the rise of corporate black confidence in the
early 1970s; this was manifested in the black consciousness movement, in labour activity, and in literature and
other arts. All this in turn produced ripple-effects throughout all the alert areas of South Africa's political and cultural life, in such a way that even the writing of white
authors whose focus is not primarily political has been
subtly affected.
Natal is in many ways a microcosm of South Africa. It
happens at the moment to be fairly rich in poets who have
brought out work recently: Douglas Livingstone, a poet of
great range and depth, a master of many different tones and
forms;1 Mafika Gwala, one of the most notable of the new
black 'poets of resistance'; Nkathazo kaMnyayiza, whose
quiet voice expresses strong and compassionate views;2
Chris Mann, an imaginative and thoughtful observer and
analyst; Shabbir Banoobhai, who has produced powerful
lyrics on mystical, political and personal themes;^ Peter
Strauss, a poet of subtle, almost metaphysical intensity;4
18
Dikobe wa Mogale, painter and poet, who was sent to jail
for ten years (under the Terrorism Act) in the same month
as his first book of poems appeared;^ and several others.
In this article I am going to consider two books of poems,
both published in 1982: No More Lullabies ( Ravan) by
Mafika Gwala, and New Shades (David Philip) by Chris
Mann. A comparison of this sort is bound to be in some
ways unfair to.both poets — after all, they published their
poems so that they would be read and responded to for
what they are, not so that they might be compared and
contrasted with another set of poems — but I hope that
the juxtaposition.may prove fruitful and suggestive, that
it may indeed provide some insights into two of the most
significant impulses in contemporary South African
poetry. This is not to say that either Gwala or Mann can
be thought of as merely typical. Both seem to me to be
fine, important poets.
Mafika Gwala was born in Verulam in 1946. He has
worked in a variety of jobs and has had a spell at the
University of Zululand, but he has for many years been
closely involved in the community life of Mpumalanga,
the township adjacent to the so-called 'border industry'
area of Hammarsdale, between Durban and Pietermaritzburg. At the moment he is a teacher. He has been engaged
in both political and cultural work, and has suffered periods
of detention-without-trial. Besides poems he has published
short stories and articles of social, political and literary
criticism and analysis. His first book of poems, Joriinkomo
(Donker), appeared in 1977.
Chris Mann was born in Port Elizabeth in 1948. He has
degrees from Wits, Oxford and London, and has taught in
Swaziland and at Rhodes University. He is now one of the
directors of the Valley Trust, a medical and agricultural
project in the Valley of a Thousand Hills. He has an active
and learned interest in African oral traditions, has mastered
Zulu and Xhosa, and is a leading member of a Zulu band,
Zabalaza. He has co-edited an anthology of South African
verse. His first book of poems, First Poems (Bateleur),
appeared in 1977.
These t w o poets, of about the same age, living and working
a few kilometres apart, have certain important things in
common. They are both very conscious of themselves as
inhabitants of Africa; they both write in English while
penning an occasional poem in Z u l u ; they both feel, in
their different ways, the need to keep in touch w i t h and
extend certain African oral traditions. Yet no t w o writers
could be more different — in their conceptions of poetry,
their types of urgency, their tones, their forms, their music.
Often he speaks for his people w i t h a prophetic intensity:
As our heroes die
As our heroes are born
Our history is being written
With the black moments given
looking the storm in the eye
Our hope is not gone
Our blackman's history
is not written in classrooms
on wide smooth boards
Our history w i l l be written
at the factory gates
at the unemployment offices
in the scorched queues of dying mouths.
(from 'Afrika at a Piece', p. 44)
But even when he speaks more quietly and altogether more
personally, one has a sense that, though he may have had
to endure isolation, he carries a community w i t h h i m :
Tap-Tapping
Rough, wet winds
parch my argonized face
as if salting the wounds of Bullhoek
Sharpeville
Soweto,
unbandage strip by strip
the dressings of Hope;
I wade my senses
through the mist;
I am still surviving
the traumas of my raped soil
alive and aware;
truths j u m p like a cat leaps for fish
at my mind;
I plod along
into the vortex
of a clear-borne dawn.
(P. 7)
Chris Mann
Mafika Gwala's starting-point, like that of almost all recent
black writers, has been the experience of oppression,
frustration, dehumanization, particularly in the urban townships. He has felt himself to be a part of and a spokesman
for a community: communal feeling, far more spontaneously
alive among Africans than among most whites, has on the
whole been heightened by shared suffering. This doesn't
mean however that black solidarity is a phenomenon that
Gwala simplifies or sentimentalizes; he is acutely aware of
the 'black status-seekers', the social climbers, and those
whom he calls 'non-whites', the people who for whatever
reason acquiesce or appear to acquiesce in customary
white evaluations of themselves. Gwala's poetry exhibits
a number of modes and approaches, but in general he has
felt the need to pass beyond the stage of protest and
ironical analysis (which one associates w i t h Mtshali's first
volume and w i t h much of the poetry of Sepamla) into
what he would feel to be the more positive and energetic
phase of creative resistance.
This seems to me a very effective poem: it manages to
dramatize both pained weariness and an undying determination to move onwards, however stubbornly, towards
a transformed way of life — towards what eventually begins
to emerge, 'through the mist', as a sudden dawn of new hope.
We feel that the dawn is partly created by the protagonist's
way of combining wading, surviving and plodding w i t h
all that is suggested by 'alive and aware' and the cat-like
jumping of truths at his m i n d ; but the dawn is also
partly inevitable — the righting of wrongs and the making
of new structures, that emerges as surely as day follows
night. The poem provides us, incidentally and unselfconsciously, w i t h a vivid sense of what it means in practice
to be heroic in circumstances of oppression.
While Mafika Gwala's poetry, then, is rooted in a particular
situation and radical in its tendency, Chris Mann's might
well be described (in the rather combative parlance of
current socio-cultural debates) as liberal. Though he is a
sensitive South African involved inexorably in anxious,
sometimes anguished probing, as a white person he has
not had to endure oppression beyond that of being born
into, and to some extent caught up willy-nilly in, the white
ruling class. He has travelled, he has studied here and
overseas, and he has taken up and tackled in verse a great
variety of themes. In this respect he is a poet in a very
traditional Western sense: a largely free person, slightly
disengaged from the immediate practical, concerns of
most people; a man given to sympathetic imaginative
response, to contemplation and meditation. He has not
19
however been wholly content w i t h this role: as a number
of his poems make clear, he has pointed his creative
capacities in the direction not only of a specifically South
African awareness but of an awareness which attempts
to bring together certain traditional features of Western
thinking and of African consciousness (as-he has come to
conceive of it, as a result of his personal contacts and of
his study of Nguni oral poetry). If Gwala's title No More
Lullabies is a call to his fellow blacks and to other South
Africans to wake up to the real psycho-political demands
of their situation, Mann's title New Shades is an invitation
to the reader (white or black, but probably more often
white than black) to recognize the rich humane significances
that can be discovered in the shades, the amadlozi, 'those
who although physically dead or absent influence the
living' (p. 43). One of the points of interest — and one
of the ironies — of the comparison that I am making is
that Gwala, though he shows a lively belief in the potency
of the example set by heroes, would probably be in some
ways doubtful about the amadlozi as they are re-created
by Mann. There are no simple answers to the questions
that Mann's poetic speculations pose.
Because of the varied nature of his concerns, it isn't easy
to offer wholly typical poems. Here is one of his references to the shades:
Nerves, heart, the gut . . .
they root and register feeling.
Same w i t h napes.
Sometimes a density gathers into them f r o m the shoulders.
There's a phrase in Zulu for this,
'IMginezibopho', it goes, ' I ' m troubled by knots.'
That means your shades have congregated,
your teachers and loved ones and lost ones are there.
They want you to slough off the petty passions of the day
and be attentive, deeply attentive to t h e m .
Napes!
Life fingertips,
they give us access to a realm beyond.
(from 'Napes', p. 19)
This is a poetry of the human psyche, an explorating of
the subtle relationships between the body, the m i n d , and
the world of the spirit. The socio-political implication,
in so far as there is one, is that we are all human beings
who can learn from one another's intuitions: we are all
part of one potential community.
The "polities' of most liberal poetry works, and has always
worked, in roughly this way. A n imaginative grasp of
ourselves, of our w o r l d , opens up the possibility of a
richer humanity, a deeper set of resonant harmonies between people, and between people and 'nature' and even
God:
A n d yet these images of earth and sky
are present myths that scholars build and break,
for science, that leads us like a honey-bird
will never rest, w i l l never grant us more
than transient truths, productive metaphors,
before it flutters round our heads again,
and draws us onward through the dim receding bush.
Small cries, like 'Primum Mobile', or 'God',
escape our lips when we confront the deeps,
the lights and frozen dark through which we spin.
Such sounds, like little drops of midnight dew,
crush up the stars w i t h i n a speck that melts,
and yet they are our signs of human awe,
and when science's theories alter, awe remains.
20
We say, this night, that Saturn's slimy gas,
the mammoth ferocity of the stars,
are by their placement made harmless as mice,
and I, gazing through their tranquil glitter,
know only that we are carefully poised
among infinities, haveilife, can love,
and that there's reason to give thanks and praise.
(from Words before Sleep', p. 13)
Mann's concern here, w i t h i n the formality of the metrical
pattern, is intensely personal; in fact the piece has begun
as a love poem, as he expresses:
a calm delight, that we
who float upon a ball of boiling rock,
can lie in steady cool w i t h i n each other's arms.
But the poem culminates in perceptions that are social,
scientific, philosophical, religious.
Mann tends to focus upon the world of nature, and more
particularly the open country: stars, sky, birds, bush,
midnight dew, mice. In this too he is working within a
Western tradition, which in English takes us back through
Hughes, Lawrence and Frost, to Wordsworth and Blake's
Songs of Innocence, and beyond them to M i ' t o n , Shakespeare and some of the poets of the Middle Ages. Gwala
on the other hand, like so many twentiety-century writers,
and like Dickens and Baudelaire and the Blake of the
Songs of Experience, is an urban poet. (It is surely no
coincidence that while Gwala lives in Mpumalanga, Mann
is at the Valley Trust.).
By now some readers w i l l be asking an inevitable question,
which might perhaps run like this: 'Mann's poems display
various kinds of sensitive awareness, but can his type of
writing be considered truly relevant in contemporary
South Africa? Isn't he missing the really salient issues?
And doesn't his w o r k , in its tendency towards idealism
(in several senses of that word), fail to offer, implicitly
or otherwise, the sort of rigorous analysis of social and
political developments that a serious approach to South
African reality demands? Indeed doesn't a poem like
'Bush and S k y ' ( p . 23) Star.e, stare at the seething bush
and wonder why berries grow.
Gaze a night at the Milky Way
and think where the galaxies go.
For berries are a throng of heads
and stars nod in a crowd,
and no one knows his genesis
or how to shrug off his shroud. —
present an unfocussed philosophizing which in the end has
to be described as self-indulgent or irresponsible?' I hope
what I have said already w i l l suggest how I respond to that
question. There obviously are important approaches to
South African reality which Mann doesn't — perhaps
couldn't — attempt. But what he gives us is, it seems to
me, deeply valid. As a poet he offers us his own particular insights into the reality that he apprehends: the
only question we can honestly ask is whether what he
presents makes vivid sense. (Of course some readers and
critics may find themselves unable to dwell on Mann's
images and themes). It must be said, t o o , that it is only
from one very specific perspective that 'Bush and Sky'
could be said t o be 'unfocussed': the poem has just the
degree of particularity that it needs in order to set in
motion the swirling — and serious — issues which provide
its dynamic.
But of course to defend Mann.in this way is not to belittle
Gwala. There can be no doubting (it seems to me) the
value, the profound human necessity, of Gwala's vision:
In Defence of Poetry
What's poetic
about Defence Bonds and Armscor?
What's poetic
about long-term sentences and
deaths in detention
for those who 'threaten state security'?
Tell me,
what's poetic
about shooting defenceless kids
in a Soweto street?
Can there be poetry
in fostering Plural Relations?
Can there be poetry
in the immorality Act?
What's poetic
about deciding other people's lives?
Tell me brother,
what's poetic
about defending herrenvolkish rights?
Mann observes a scene w i t h a similar precision, but w i t h a
certain detachment, in this case affectionately ironic:
On Saturday morning, half-past ten,
Aunt Frieda, Aunt Winnie, and Flo,
A u n t Anna, Aunt Dolly, and Granny Nel
meet at the West Beach kaif for scones,
meet at the kaif for tea.
And Frieda's eyes are deep as the sea's,
and Winnie's are bright as the spoons,
And Flo and Anna, and Dolly as well,
have faces that droop w i t h soft lace,
have bodies soft as lace.
(from 'Saturday Morning at the West Beach Cafe, p. 18)
A brief article cannot hope to do justice t o these t w o
volumes of verse. Each has more variety than I can illustrate. Each has its high points and its slightly lower points.
On the whole Gwala's book seems to me a little more
uneven than Mann's; but this may be partly because it
contains more elements — details of content, facets of
attitude and tone — which are not wholly familiar to me as
a white person.
As long as
this land, my country
is unpoetic in its doings
it'll be poetic to disagree.
(p. 10)
But some readers would question Gwala's poetry, in some
such terms as these: 'One appreciates his urgency, his
anger; the life of a black person in contemporary South
Africa is indeed a painful and frustrating one. But don't
his concerns restrict him to a very narrow emotional and
imaginative range? And indeed can such a straightforward
series of complaints as we find in 'In Defence of Poetry'
really be called 'poetry' at all?' Of course Gwala's poem
is very different in its methods and its texture from most
of Mann's. There are certainly no images of nature
(though such images are to be found in 'Tap-Tapping',
which I quoted earlier), but what the piece offers is a
considerable richness of political and (implicitly) human
detail, and the set of questions is swept along by an impassioned but supple rhetoric. The poemculminates in
a cathartic resolution — a clinching of the issue, a clarifying of the emotion — which gives it an almost traditional
pattern. And of course the whole movement is buoyed up
by its initial irony; the piece is distilling its own poetry
from — precisely — 'unpoetic' materials. It is the poet's
human response which makes things poetic; poetry is
the articulation of a true humanity.
In one respect the two poets have a common aim: each is an
observer of the world he knows — though (as one would
expect) Gwala's poetic intensity is almost always fairly
closely related to his central commitment. For example:
You blew
You
You
You
And
pianoed
strummed
drummed
the Shange brothers
Claude your teacher
Boyce
Sandile
— all the jazzing brothers
listened to your music play
As tyres f r o m Mayville
painted Blackhurst w i t h red mud
(from Tor Bhoyi', p. 52)
Mann's treatment of political themes, of the kind that form
the staple of Gwala's w o r k , is notalways indirect. In t w o
poems particularly he discusses political commitment...
The first is called 'Naturalists' (p. 20). In three full stanzas
he describes, w i t h good-humoured admiration, those who
have devoted themselves entirely to the intricacies of the
life of biological nature. Here is the first stanza:
The naturalists I know
have brown arms and green thumbs,
and butterflies roost in their beards.
With tiny pads, they wipe polluted dew
f r o m tender throats, and when they sneeze
they pollinate peaches and plums.
He points out how many valuable discoveries they have
made, how much sensitive and alert people owe to them.
One has a sense that Mann is in many respects a naturalist
himself: perhaps much of his poetry is to be seen in this
light? But after stanza t w o one comes to this quatrain:
Molecules and galaxies
swirl and erupt
in universes beyond their focus.
They find enough t o live by in between.
They are content, they have quite enough to keep them
going; yet they are blind to certain greater and smaller
facts. But does that matter? Then after the third stanza
the poem concludes w i t h a modified quatrain:
Quarrels and conquests
swirl and erupt
in universes beyond their focus..
They find enough to marvel at between.
The Naturalists are also apolitical. Does it matter? Mann
admires them; yet he records a narrowness. Perhaps if
they weren't narrow they couldn't do what they do, be
what they are. But politics is important. Is it important
for everyone? Can some people live out valid lives w i t h o u t
it? Or do the naturalists dwell, in the end, largely in a world
of illusion? The poem is carefully and subtly poised between t w o alternative visions. Mann is not wondering
whether political events are important: clearly 'quarrels
and conquests' are as solid and momentous as 'molecules
21
and galaxies'. The q u e s t i o n ^ whether every person needs
to be a political animal.
'Strategies' (pp. 3 4 - 5 ) adopts a different approach. In
five six-lined stanzas, each w i t h its refrain of three lines,
the poet ranges through South African society, through its
'statistics of woe', its many sufferings, its angers; its failures
of communication, its despairs, and he concludes in each
refrain that revolution is inevitable:
things might well imply an acceptance of what white
writers are able t o do. Certainly Gwala suggests that
black culture, in challenging the domination of white
culture, has brought about a situation where both may
become 'sub-cultures, part of a greater South African
national culture'.?
And they are right, surely they are right:
revolution smoulders within the ghettoes,
revolution shudders the ground.
Many cry out; he too has cried out:
I've been one amongst the prophets,
a writer of tracts and anxious poems . . .
and they and he have been right t o cry out:
And I was right, surely I'm right:
revolution gathers beneath the surface,
revolution shudders the ground.
Those who feel the necessity f o r revolution, and those who
warn of this necessity, are all justified. We are here fairly
close t o the world of Mafika Gwala. But the last stanza
and refrain offer us a different perspective, a different
'strategy':
Homer, Milton, Cetshwayo's bard,
while men about them hacked and howled,
while galaxies and planets burst
and spilled across the lifeless skies,
reworked their timers religious ore,
and crafted it to shapes that sing.
And they are right, surely they're right:
revolution burbles beneath the earthcrust,
revolution shudders the ground.
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The line 'while galaxies and planets burst' reminds us of
'Naturalists', and Chris Mann is perhaps offering here something of a solution t o the problem posed at the end of that
poem. Poets must be concerned, involved even, in the
great and necessary movements of society; they cannot
opt out like the naturalists. But they can be a little like
them in attempting t o take as their themes, even at the
very moments of crisis and transformation, some of the
deepest subject-matter of human life. Does this mean —
a sceptic might ask — that Mann is suggesting that while
political battles are being fought a poet may retire t o
themes that are simply 'eternal' and 'universal? No, for
Mann makes clear that poets have always taken up the
deeper themes (as he sees them) in their specific sociohistoric contexts: they have
reworked their time's religious ore,
and crafted it to shapes that sing.
The poet, then, f o r Mann, lives and works in an area between commitment and a kind of detachment, or rather
his commitment t o what he sees as most valuable involves
a certain strategy of detachment.
Gwala
But his own concern has of course been w i t h the concrete
particularities and the human and political urgencies of
the world in which he lives: 'We cannot write outside of
our experience in a society where social deprivation is
taken for granted'.^ But doesn't this suggest - our other
sceptic might again ask — a poetry that is debilitatingly
circumscribed? I think not, for several reasons. First,
as I have suggested earlier, what might from one point
of view appear t o be Gwala's narrowness of base is in fact
his great strength: a socio-economic and cultural community which is rendered vibrant b y powerful ideas and
feelings, a group of people many of whom are on the
move towards liberation and justice. There could be
no more potent source of poetic inspiration. But (it
might be asked) isn't this 'justice' in danger of being sectional, divisive ? Not as far as Gwala is concerned; he
is f i r m on this point:
One would have to seek an approach w h i c h , from certain
perspectives, would be desirable after blacks have achieved
their liberation. Or rather, after South African society
has become normal, open t o all its people.
and
Gwala — who incidentally has defined his aims in prose in
a way that Mann has not — would no doubt accept that a
writer, t o be a writer at all, needs some degree of detachment; but for him the equation is inevitably very different
from Mann's. He would probably agree w i t h Richard
Rive's view that black literature 'must differ in texture and
quality from that emanating from a people who.have the
vote, suffer no discrimination and are in a power position
because of the colour of their skins' 6 and this way of seeing
22
Our critical attitudes towards racism, exploitation and inequality will inevitably dominate. It is total criticism of
that inhumanity of man t o fellow man that carries the
hope of our regaining humanity for all. 10.
One must remember too that every poet, whether he admits
or knows it or not, is t o some extent a mouthpiece for a
particular community or group, or set of experiences; this
is true of Mann as well. A n d it is through his or her particularity of vision that 'general truths' can be arrived at.
(In saying this I am not wishing to imply that only 'general'
The voice is vigorous, pressing, t o u g h , but humane; and
truths are of value; but a perception must have some degree
above all it is a voice.
of 'generality' if it is t o be apprehended at all f u l l y by a
addressing another in an all-too-real situation; and yet there
One has a sense that one person is
reader — like myself, in this case — who is not a member
is an element of ritual in the poem t o o .
of the poet's immediate community.)
meaning is packed into the energetic verbs of command or
Finally, it is useful
A great deal of
t o know that Gwala — who is a well-read person, w i t h a
e x h o r t a t i o n : 'collect y o u r s e l f , 'remind y o u r s e l f , ' u p t u r n ' ,
considerable range of cultural experience — is very con-
'rechannel', and so o n .
scious of the artistic and linguistic process that is being
brought about by himself and his fellow black writers of
commitment:
Mafika Gwala's voice is also a voice of hope.
emerge and he f o u n d himself working w i t h students and
It has not been easy t o harmonize our black subject matter w i t h
the language forms of a dominant English culture. No one can
objectively blame us if at times the culturally enriched English
language has been stripped naked. One is reminded of how, at
the height of cultural resistance by black Americans, Imamuli
Baraka (Le Roi Jones) advocated 'poetry that kills' amongst
blacks.11
others in a shared dedication,
my poetic life, if one may call it that, changed accordingly.
The brooding was replaced by an understanding of hope. I
have been striving t o define that hope since then.13
Chris Mann in his very different way is also a poet of hope:
How dimly in its yolk of flesh
a fledgling taps the shell and sings,
and I will tap and grope until
there comes the cracking of the eggs,
until her rose grey nape appears,
and then if grace be given us, wings.
and
This means that the.language of oppressed cannot always be
lyrical, highly nuanced and frolicsome. Our language often
answers to immediate needs . . .12
(from
' L y r i c a l , highly nuanced and frolicsome' are words that
could be applied t o a number of Mann's poem.
does Gwala offer by way of alternative?
He tells us
that at the moment when black consciousness began t o
What then
Here is roughly
the second half of 'A Poem (after James Matthews)':
The Growth
of the Dove', p. 14)
Are these t w o hopes compatible? Can they in any sense
live and w o r k together?
I believe that they can, and that
these t w o voices — so different in tone, in urgency, in wavelength, in focus — enrich and help t o propel our literature,
our humanity and our ever-mobile social f o r m a t i o n .
Collect yourself t o truths that remind y o u :
you were not born to slave
for the boss who drops you Rand notes
so's you can play Judas on your fellow workers,
your people w h o scare y o u ;
Remind yourself how many times
you've betrayed the future of your children
as you came out bloody number ten
by your playing second fiddle;
Upturn your thoughts
as you fugue away from yourself
to healthy moments when life was real;
Rechannel your inner soul's fears
as you wipe your salty eyes
w i t h a beer mug dripping froth
pausing on the token of the 'Best Taste'
at the boozejoint next t o your matchboxhouse;
Jump t o the values of your ancestors
as you cling t o sober traditions
worrying about those children w i t h ribs
like steel rods
dying of kwashiorkor and dehydration
in some remote bundu;
Brace yourself when the sun, hot as your tears
scans the gables of your neighbourhood,
with children laughing and chasing
dreams they may never grow t o realize.
(pp.
•
REFERENCES
18-19)
1.
His latest volume is a new edition of A Rosary of Bone (David
Philip), 1983.
2.
Some of his poems are t o be found in Voices from Within,
edited by Michael Chapman and Achmat Dangor^Donker),
1982, and in The Return of the Amasi Bird, edited by T i m
Couzens and Essop Patel (Ravan), 1982.
3.
Echoes of my other self (Ravan), 1980; Shadows of a sundarkened land (Ravan), 1984.
4.
His latest volume is Bishop Bern ward's Door and other poems
(David Philip), 1983.
5.
Baptism of fire (Donker), 1984.
6.
Momentum: on recent South African Writing, iedited by M.J.
Daymond, J.U. Jacobs and Margaret Lenta (University of
Natal Press), 1984, p. 9 2 .
7.
Momentum, p. 49
8.
Momentum, p. 4 7 .
9.
Momentum, p. 4 6 .
10.
Momentum,p. 4 7 .
11.
Momentum,p. 47 — 48
12.
Momentum,p. 51
13.
Momentum,p. 4 0 .